


The Planets Align You Just Like Mars

by mahoni



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Cuddling and Snuggling, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahoni/pseuds/mahoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are bugs on the floor and it's too cold to sleep in the van. Set when Bob was doing sound for MCR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Planets Align You Just Like Mars

The problem was the floor.

"You know what, I think I'll just sleep in the van," Bob said.

Brian stopped fighting the ancient, broken-down folding cot with Mikey and made a face at him. It was the "I'm too tired and drunk to haul your ass to the ER so stop being an idiot" look. Bob had seen that look many times in the last couple of years. A few times it had even been directed at him.

"It's the dead of fucking winter, Bryar," Brian said. "You'll freeze."

"You'll turn into a Bobsicle, dude," Mikey said solemnly, and then accidentally figured out how to release the cot. It sprung apart and unfolded onto Brian's foot. Brian yowled. Mikey shoved his glasses back up his nose and winced. "Oh, sorry."

"Mmmmmmm, Bobsicle." Frank had flung himself face down on one of the beds, but he got his face unplanted from the pillow long enough to leer blearily. "Can I lick your Bobsicle, Bob?"

Bob rolled his eyes. Brian was sitting on the cot clutching his foot, muttering something. It sounded like "...all a fucking menace...fucking motherfucking _fuck_." Then he glared at Bob.

"Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with the floor?"

Instead of responding, Bob lifted his foot and took a step back. Most of the cockroach he'd stepped on stayed stuck to the filthy, worn carpet; he shuffled his foot on the carpet to rub the rest off. Then he pointed to the nearest corner of the room where another pair of roaches were trying to figure out whether to go over or around each other.

"Oh," Brian said.

Not that having cockroaches in the kind of hotel rooms they could afford was particularly unheard of. Bob had gotten used to sacking out in the van if there weren't enough beds and the floor was a certain level of vile.

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Brian said, "Okay, but you can't sleep in the van. It's supposed to be negative five tonight." Dropping his hand, he looked briefly confused. "Which...I have no idea what that would be in Fahrenheit, but --"

"'Bout twenty degrees," Gerard said in a muffled slur. All Bob could see of him, burrowed under the covers in the bed by the wall, was a tuft of dark, greasy hair. Then Ray got his boots off and flopped over sideways in the bed and Gerard vanished behind him.

"Too fucking cold to sleep in the van," Brian said. "So. Just. Share a bed with somebody."

The beds were _maybe_ a few inches wider than twin, from what Bob could tell. Gerard and Ray fit on one, Frank and Otter fit on one -- barely. And the cot Brian and Mikey were going to share was even narrower. Bob would maybe fit on one of the beds, if all he had to share it with was a drumstick.

Bob raised an eyebrow at Brian.

Groaning, Brian said, "God, I'm too fucking wiped for this. Look --" he shoved off the cot and waved a hand at it. "Sleep here with Mikey. I'll..."

Eyeing the remaining beds critically, he came to a decision and shuffled over to Gerard and Ray's bed. He didn't bother trying to get Ray and Gerard to move over, he just crawled over top of the two of them. Ray didn't make a sound, but the Gerard-shaped lump squawked and mumbled something.

Brian muttered, "Oh shut up," and squeezed himself between Gerard and the wall while Gerard snorfled and wriggled to make room.

Bob looked at Mikey. Mikey looked back at him and shrugged.

"Works for me," Mikey said.

Bob sighed. Mikey was not quite as skinny as a drumstick, but he was close enough. Bob grabbed one of the blankets and helped make up the cot.

*

Mikey was definitely not as skinny as a drumstick. He was, however, as pointy as a drumstick.

Bob was as close to the edge of the cot as he could possible get, that precarious point where a muscle spasm or a yawn would probably topple him off onto the floor. That was apparently not far enough, though, because every time Mikey so much as twitched Bob got an elbow to the back or a knee in the ass. Pointy elbow, pointy knee.

"Would you settle the fuck down and go to sleep?" he hissed.

Doing some kind of shimmy that made the cot bounce and got Bob an elbow to the head, Mikey whispered, "I'm trying. I can't get comfortable."

"Oh, for --" Bob let his legs drop over the edge of the cot and heaved himself up. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he considered his options. The wind had picked up outside and little icy-cold puffs seeped in through the badly-insulated window. Bob had to admit that sleeping in the van would probably not be a great idea. "Fuck it. They're just fucking cockroaches."

But when he moved to get up Mikey caught a handful of the back of his sweatshirt and tugged him back.

"No, you don't have to go. It's not you," Mikey said.

Bob snorted softly. "Mikey, it's fine. I know I take up a lot of room."

But Mikey just tugged on Bob's sweatshirt again.

"Seriously, no," Mikey said. "I don't actually need that much room, I just. My brain won't turn off." He sighed. "If Gerard hadn't found Brian's Goldschläger this wouldn't be a problem."

"He did? Wait, you knew about that too?" Stashes of alcohol didn't last very long in their van, but Brian had managed to keep the Goldschläger under wraps since Italy. He and Bob had been nipping off it on the sly when the guys were on stage.

"Gee found it while you guys were getting the room," Mikey said. "I didn't even notice until he'd polished it off."

"Fuck, Brian's going to be pissed," Bob said. Not that Brian would do anything about it, but he'd still be pissed. There hadn't been all that much left in the bottle -- just enough to get the two of them a little buzzed -- and they'd decided to save it for the end of the tour. They were hoping to celebrate making it through Europe without anybody getting lost, maimed or falling over drunk in front of an oncoming train.

Though, the stuff had a pretty distinctive smell, and Brian was the one Gerard had been hanging all over as they had wandered the outside of the hotel looking for their room. He probably already knew.

Mikey rolled onto his back and draped an arm over his face. There was light coming in the window around the too-small curtain, and Bob could see Mikey drumming his fingers on his stomach. He could see Mikey chewing his lip, too.

Reaching back, Bob tapped a finger on Mikey's mouth. "Stop that. You're gonna make it bleed again."

Mikey made an irritated noise and swatted at Bob's hand. When he lowered his arm from his face, though, he didn't look annoyed. He stared up at the ceiling, still drumming with his fingers, and twisting the blanket around his other hand.

Bob wondered suddenly if Mikey was unhappy about the Goldschläger being gone because he wanted to drink himself to sleep, or because Gerard had already been pretty far gone without adding cinnamon schnapps on top of everything else he'd been dumping into his system all day.

Probably both.

Sighing again, Bob shifted on the cot so he could get a leg up.

"Here," he said. "Roll over for a second."

When Mikey did, Bob lay down on his back and scooted himself awkwardly sideways until he was taking up most of the cot. Then he fumbled for one of Mikey's scrawny arms, and pulled him over.

"This is how we usually do it in the van anyway," Bob mumbled.

Not like he had to explain himself to Mikey, though. Mikey caught on immediately and let himself be dragged halfway on top of Bob with zero resistance. He settled there, slinging a leg over Bob's knees and hauling the blanket up over both of them. Dropping his head onto Bob's shoulder, he blew out a sigh.

Bob stroked a hand over Mikey's head, mostly because Mikey's rats-nest hair was tickling his chin.

"This okay?" he said.

Mikey nodded, his pointy chin momentarily digging into Bob's chest.

"We play rock-paper-scissors for who gets Pillow-Bob in the van," Mikey said. "I haven't gotten a turn since, like, Barcelona. This is awesome."

Bob huffed a laugh. "All I rate is rock-paper-scissors? No money changing hands?"

"Well." Mikey paused to yawn, hugely and with jaw-cracking. "Frank has been known to offer bribes. Because he sucks at rock-paper-scissors."

"Fuck you, Mikeyway," Frank grumbled, mostly coherently. "And Jesus, would you guys shut the fuck up? Some of us are trying to sleep over here."

"We better do as he says," Bob whispered to Mikey. "Frank needs all the beauty sleep he can get."

Frank muttered something that sounded like "Bite me, Bryar," but since Bob couldn't be sure he didn't bother trying for a come-back.

For a while Bob lay there, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, listening to the whistling wind and the sounds of people sleeping. Mikey didn't settle down right away. Now and then his foot would start jiggling, or his fingers would tap arhythmically on Bob's chest. His breathing was mostly little puffs and hitches and long sighs. Bob had a hand resting on Mikey's shoulder; when the twitching got too bad Bob rubbed or stroked just a little, just until the twitching passed.

Eventually Mikey's breathing evened out. The hand on Bob's chest slid down until Mikey's arm draped across him. Mikey twitched one last time -- his arm tightening around Bob briefly -- and then he was asleep.

Bob let out a long breath, closed his eyes and followed.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "27" by Fall Out Boy.


End file.
